


Soon As I Held You

by morrezela



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe - Cinderella Fusion, Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Amnesia, M/M, Magic, Male Cinderella, Soulmates, Torture, True Love, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-27
Updated: 2015-10-27
Packaged: 2018-04-28 10:38:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5087515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morrezela/pseuds/morrezela
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The only certainty that Bucky felt about his life was that it was horrible. Memories failed him and whatever he had was quickly stripped away by his stepfather and brothers. But he was a person once, and King Steven Rogers had never forgotten him. A Cinderella AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	Soon As I Held You

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: This isn’t real. Marvel & the Mouse own the rights. I’m making no money off this work. 
> 
> Warnings: Abuse, brain washing, torture, dark themes, amnesia, soulmate/true love tropes
> 
> A/N: This was written for the 2015 Marvel Big Bang. A big thanks to Anna for pulling my ass out of the fire for beta reading.
> 
> As always, all mistakes you find are my own.

 

The grey light of morning seemed to be the only time that Bucky ever had to himself. Whenever the sun rose enough to paint the clouds pink, he would already be up and about, performing chores for the household. The sun’s setting was worse. He barely noticed it beyond what it meant for tending to the gardens and animals of the household.

 

The stars were merely inconveniences to his work if they were hidden by clouds. The moon could be friend or foe depending on its phase. A bright, full moon meant using fewer candles. This made Bucky’s stepfather happy.

 

Bucky snorted at the thought of his stepfather ever being happy. Less angry would perhaps be the better word for his stepfather’s dire attitudes towards him. Happiness was something that never seemed to touch Alexander Pierce’s eyes, not even when he was gazing upon his own, beloved sons.

 

At first, Bucky had thought that Pierce’s anger had something to do with Bucky’s own short comings. When testing that premise was exhausted, Bucky had thought perhaps he looked a bit too much like his mother. Alexander had not been able to bear looking upon him because of the memory of his dead wife.

 

This theory had held more merit than the first. After all, Bucky’s mother had deeply mourned the passing of his dear father. Her eyes had darkened and her smile had become nothing but a ghost. Was it so impossible that Mr. Pierce would feel similar grief to hers?

 

But over time, Bucky came to realize that his mother had been no more loved by her first husband than a favorite suit coat would have been. She has been a decoration for Pierce’s arm. She had been nothing but a means to an end, giving Pierce an estate and small fortune upon her death.

 

Most times, Bucky was glad that memories of his past were vague and elusive. What he did remember hurt his heart. He was certain that if his memories became clear, they would break him in two, and he wasn’t foolish enough to think that such an event would spare him from his life with Pierce and his two sons.

 

No. If Bucky suddenly split in two, there would be no death to claim him. He would only wake up to a line of metal running through him, forcing his two halves back together so that he could continue serving the household.

Bucky’s metal fingers curled against his palm at his dark musings. The grate of metal against metal was barely audible in his drafty attic room. If another were to hear it, they’d like just think it was one of the mice or perhaps a rat squabbling over the last morsel of food. They would pay it no more heed than they had paid Bucky when they came to visit his stepfather’s house.

 

In the eyes of the world, it was as if Bucky had never existed. Even in his own view, there was little left of what had once been. His memories were hazy at best. There had been warm summers and crisp autumns, but even those recollections he doubted.

 

What sort of pitiful creature could not tell memory from imagining? What sort of man found company in the small mice that scurried under his floorboards, safe in the knowledge that the worst they would do was steal from him? Even Bucky knew that such things were not normal.

 

If only there was hope that he could be normal, Bucky might flee his stepfather’s house. He could run away and leave the Barnes estate to be led to ruin by Pierce. But where could he go? The heavy tug of metal that was his arm was an ever present reminder of what the world would think of him now.

 

In the markets, he took great care to hide its monstrous form behind sleeves and gloves. His face he had no worry of showing, years of living with his stepfather and stepbrothers had ensured that he never tilted his face towards the light. His features were not ones to be beheld by others.

 

“James! JAMES COME DOWN HERE AT ONCE!” Brock bellowed. His voice never ceasing to creep up the stairs like an unwelcome fog.

 

“NEVERMIND HIM, JAMES, YOU MUST COME PRESS MY FROCK COAT!” Jasper yelled, his thinner voice grating on Bucky’s ears.

 

“Coming, stepbrothers,” he obediently called, opening the door to his small oasis and descending into the house proper.

 

“Move faster, you stupid oaf,” Brock chided with a shove as soon as Bucky stepped off the last step of the rickety stairway. “You need to have my boot polished yesterday.”

 

“You’ve had him enough!” Jasper protested. “I need my coat pressed so that I may go into town and visit the butcher. Lady Romanov favors Tuesdays to pick up her goods and doesn’t trust her servants to do it for her. How can I impress her with a rumpled appearance?”

 

Brock laughed at his brother. “The only way that you could impress her is if she went blind!”

 

Bucky moved silently away as the brothers continued to bicker. He pressed Jasper’s coat first, knowing that he was the neater of the two brothers. There were few wrinkles, and it was quieter than taking the brush to Brock’s boots.

 

He helped Jasper into the coat, ignoring his complaints about the fabric being too warm and Brock’s tirade about his precious boots. When the brothers again started hurling insults at each other, Bucky quickly grabbed Brock’s boots and carried them out to the back step.

 

As he expected, there was mud caked all over them. Had he attempted to clean them in the house, it would have been a disaster. But his stepfather rarely toured the small garden that Bucky had managed to keep alive. He was unlikely to notice a few out of place bits of mud.

 

For this, Bucky was grateful. He did not know what Brock got up to that he was always dragging home such filthy boots, but he knew that his stepbrother was not exploring around the Barnes’ estate. There was little clay in the soil, and never had anything so red been tracked onto the carpets except for Brock’s boots.

 

There was a pleasant, sandy walk and rich, fertile soil in the gardens. There was no dark, red clay or rough gravel. Even the paving stones used to line the turnabout and horse lanes was white and smoothed from years of wear. Brock was not getting so filthy from exploring ‘his’ inheritance as he so claimed.

 

But it was not Bucky’s place to ask. He couldn’t remember the exact details of what had happened the last time he had asked, but he knew his punishment had been severe. His face still twitched as if reliving a slap, but the lack of memory means that he was taken to the cellar.

 

Unwillingly, Bucky’s eyes darter over to the outside entrance to the cellar. The skin between his shoulder blades itched, and his teeth clenched. He did not know what was in there, but he knew that it wasn’t good. Nothing good ever came out of the cellar.

 

Bucky stood and hurried back to the kitchen. The boots weren’t yet clean enough to be polished, but he didn’t care. No matter how sunny the day was, the cellar doors had ruined it for him. He would scrape off the mud before the small fireplace that he used to warm himself in the winters. He would sweep the dirt, and with any luck, any he missed would be ignored by his stepfather as soot.

 

~~~~~~~~

 

“James, how many times have I told you that this was inacceptable?” Alexander Pierce asked in a deceptively calm voice.

 

Bucky kept silent. He wasn’t sure he could speak if he tried. He hated the afternoons with a passion. Afternoon was when his stepfather came for him. He would take him out into the forest or off into a long unused room of the manor, and Bucky’s training sessions would begin.

 

There were brain exercises where the wrong answer meant getting a sharp poke from a stick or feeling the heat of flame against his still flesh hand. Those were the good training days. The bad ones were the physical tests.

 

There would be running and lifting and fighting. Before long, Bucky’s all too empty stomach would roil with queasiness. Vomiting was punished as was passing out. If he was ever knocked off his feet, he had mere seconds to be back on them, or he would be punished again.

 

Now he was lying on the floor. His muscles protested the very idea of movement, even his mouth refused to move enough to form words.

 

“Well,” his stepfather huffed, “I see that you’re going to be stubborn. Because of your stubbornness, I’m not going to let you out of this room. You will have to escape it by yourself.”

 

The heavy tread of Pierce’s feet in his expensive shoes clacked across the barren wood boards. He leaned over Bucky’s face and gave him a flat, unimpressed stare before tying his wrists and feet together. “Remember, James. Always stay on your feet,” he said before he walked away.

 

Bucky didn’t even have the strength to curse him when he left.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

The autumn harvest was Bucky’s favorite time of the year. The crisp air soothed the joint between metal and flesh that sometimes hurt in the summer. The late blooming flowers brightened his day as he harvested bushels of fruits and vegetables to be stored and canned. His favorite by far were the pumpkins whose vines and broad leaves curled around the orange fruits. It made him fond of something that he could not remember.

 

Best of all, his stepfather often did business in the fall. It was a good time of year, he said, to part men with their money. They were not cold and hungry, like people in winter were, nor were they hot and cantankerous as the summer’s sun made so many.

 

Alexander Pierce being gone meant that Bucky was not put through training. He would only have to deal with his stepbrothers. Though cruel, they were nothing like their father. Neither had the collected demeanor nor calculating persona.

 

There was no doubt in Bucky’s mind that Brock would love to be on the other side of Bucky’s training sessions, but Pierce would not allow it. He would not want all of his work to be undone by his son’s temper.

 

There was little to be thankful about, but Bucky found as much as he could. It was the only way he knew to make life a little less miserable.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

The winter came on quickly, fall’s crisp air turning icy in a breath. Snow drifted onto the lawns and covered still green grass. Red and gold leaves that still hung on trees were coated in the snow as well.

 

The cold made Bucky’s bones ache. His body was corded with muscle, but there was little that muscle could do against the cold when it was covered only by skin and a threadbare jacket. So he let his long hair down from its fastenings so that it would cover his ears. He made hearty soups and stews that could be stretched into larger meals with little notice from his stepfather and stepbrothers when they took their tour of the pantry.

 

Normally, Bucky’s precautions concerning the food would have been enough. But his stepfather was rarely gone when the first snows hit. He preferred to stay in residence during the winters. A roaring fire and thick bed linens were more comfortable than a drafty coach or thin mattress at an inn.

 

But the storms had caught them unawares, and Brock became antsy from being ‘trapped’ inside the manor.

 

“What are you doing!” he yelled when he caught Bucky eating.

 

“I was only…”

 

“Eating us out of house and home,” Brock finished for him. “You disgusting pig. Look at all that food!” he ranted as he tossed Bucky’s chipped and half full bowl onto the floor.

 

“Maybe you should have a taste of what it’s like out in the world,” Brock snarled as he opened the kitchen door.

 

Bucky struggled as he caught sight of the cellar door. His heart beat wildly in his chest, fearing being taken there.

 

“Stay out here until I tell you to come in. Be a good little soldier, huh?” Brock ordered as he threw Bucky onto the half frozen, half wet ground.

 

Bucky shook as the cold, muddy water seeped into his clothes. He could go back into the kitchen as soon as the lights went off. Little could awaken Brock and Jasper once they were asleep in their beds, but he dared not risk it.

 

The cellar door was a reminder to him ever time that he thought of sneaking into the house or stables. The fear of the cellar was worse than whatever he thought might happen to him outdoors.

 

With a final glance at the lights of the house, Bucky trudged through the snow to the nearest copse of trees to seek some shelter. He turned his metal arm to the worst of the wind, and made himself as comfortable as possible. Then he waited.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

The bright light of dawn woke him. The crust of ice that covered the fields reflected the early morning sun, making Bucky’s eyes water. With a groan he stood up from where he had curled up against a tree. He shook the ice crystals from his hair and listened to the rooster complaining that he hadn’t been down to fee it yet.

 

He cursed under his breath at his metal arm as he broke a path through the snow that had fallen. He had no doubt that it was what had kept him alive. None of his fingers seemed discolored, and there was no shooting pain or numbness in his feet.

 

Any other man who had been tossed into the elements as he had been would have died or at least been injured. But Bucky was fine. He was uncomfortable and the wind stung his cheeks, but there was no serious injury on his body.

 

Gritting his teeth, Bucky went about feeding the animals as quickly as possible. He was grateful that he had finished the last of the harvest, or he would be running through the gardens, trying to salvage what he could. He was already behind schedule with his duties as it was.

 

The kitchen door opened with a groan when he pushed on it. There was a frame of hard ice and snow that had blown up against it and frozen. He would have to break it down if the sun didn’t warm enough to melt the early snow.

 

“Already up and at it like nothing happened,” Jasper sneered from the doorway just as Bucky was lighting the fire in the stove.

 

“I told you he’d soldier through it,” Brock said, propping himself against the other side of the door frame.

 

Bucky ignored them, instead filling the tea kettle with water and setting it to boil.

 

“He’s a regular winter soldier,” Jasper snickered.

 

Brock slapped him on the back of his head. “Don’t be an idiot.”

 

Jasper gave him an angry look. “Come on. We have better things to do than watch the help cook breakfast.”

 

Brock grunted and followed after him.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

“Your majesty,” the respectful words grated on Steve’s nerves. No matter how often or ow vehemently he rejected Nick Fury’s counsel, he kept giving it. “You need to get married,” Nick reasoned, unaware or uncaring of Steve’s pique.

 

“And I told you, I haven’t found the right partner,” Steve reminded him. In all his travels and political dinners, there had only been one lady who had tempted him. But Peggy’s father had betrothed her to another, and it would have been war had Steve tried to steal her away.

 

Despite what others might have thought, Steve hadn’t been despondent since his plans of wooing and winning the fetching Carter heiress had fallen through. He just hadn’t found anyone else that made him feel like he was special.

 

Oh, there were plenty of compliments to be had, but those were always about Steve’s kingdom or his looks or his riches. They were never about who he was. They weren’t about how he loved peanut butter and hated olives. They were never about his hopes and dreams.

 

Steve never had to wonder what they would think of the skinny, scrawny kid that he had once been. They’d have looked over him without ever even seeing him. Most people had back then. It had made getting out of the castle and into the city easy.

 

The guards had rarely noticed him, and they had known who he was. The average Lord or Earl couldn’t pick him out of a crowd, and the commoners were worse off than that. The royal portraits that were sent out had been the highest of quality – which meant that Steve had been painted in a far grander light than he actually appeared.

 

There had only been one person besides Steve’s mother who liked him for who he was. Bucky had been an accomplice in all manner of mischief whenever Steve managed to escape from the palace. Every morning, Bucky would be in town running errands with his parents’ servant. He had confided to Steve that he was expected to learn the managing of the estate from top to bottom because he must never think himself above the servants.

 

Steve hadn’t cared about Bucky having to learn the mundane tasks that most nobleman’s children never touched. To Steve it had just meant that Bucky was somehow like him. He wasn’t like all the other children of upper society. He was different, and cared about Steve’s love of the food the street vendors hocked in the mornings. He didn’t mock Steve for wanting to go off to fight in battles even though Steve was pathetically scrawny and pale.

 

Every time that Steve picked a fight with somebody picking on a stray cat or hurling insults at an orphan, Bucky was there to back him up – taller frame intimidating kids a couple years older than them. Steve had never had to call for a royal guard or use his dead father’s name to get other kids to listen to him when Bucky was around.

 

But one day, Bucky just wasn’t there anymore. He’d been silent for a few weeks, somber where normally he was playful and full of sass. Steve had tried to get Bucky to talk to him, but nothing could break though his sullenness.

 

Eventually, Bucky had admitted that his mother was marrying another man, said that she couldn’t stand being lonely anymore. Bucky’s new father was going to bring with him two sons, and Bucky didn’t like them.

 

Steve had done his best to cheer his pal up, but Bucky started becoming sporadic in his visits to town. Even the candies that had eased the pain of Bucky’s father’s passing hadn’t managed to coax a wan smile from Bucky’s lips.

 

Then Bucky stopped showing up in town all together. Steve couldn’t get anything out of the servants that had once accompanied Bucky because they had been let go by the new master of the house. It was like Bucky’s entire life had been exchanged for a new one, and that included Steve.

 

In his childish pique, Steve had demanded his mother ask around for Bucky. He even threatened that he wouldn’t study and become king if she didn’t find his friend. A search had been done, but no boy by the name of ‘Bucky’ had ever been found.

 

Steve’s mother had concluded that Bucky must’ve been the son of one of the servants that he had been tagging along after. She had lectured him about being careful who he made friends with, and reminded him that a prince and future kind needed to be mindful of his connections.

 

For his part, Steve had often wondered if Bucky hadn’t just grown tired of him. Perhaps he had enjoyed the company of his new step-brothers and lied to Steve. It wouldn’t have been the first time that someone lied to Steve to spare his feelings.

 

“Are you just going to ignore me?” Nick asked as he stormed in front of Steve, blocking his view of the window.

 

Steve looked down at him. “The thought had crossed my mind,” he admitted.

 

“I think it more than, ‘crossed your mind,’” Nick huffed. “You were staring out that window like you were a thousand miles away.”

 

“Just reminiscing,” Steve assured him. “All this talk of marrying to fulfill my royal duty makes me long for a time where the whims of society didn’t dictate my every move.”

 

“The whims of society have always dictated your life,” Nick scoffed. “You were just to pig headed stubborn to notice. Going off to war, trying to get yourself killed like your father did…”

 

“My father was a hero,” Steve interrupted curtly.

 

Nick glared at him. “And a fat lot of good that did him or his country. He left a grieving widow and a son that most people thought wouldn’t make puberty. Do you have any idea the level of unrest your mother had to quell? Do you know what it would’ve been like if your father hadn’t left an heir? There would’ve been war right here in the palace with your distant cousins all claiming the throne.”

 

“I know,” Steve said tiredly. “I know what would have happened and what will happen if I don’t have an heir. I haven’t just ignored your thirty-six lectures on the subject.”

 

“Good. Because I’m throwing you a ball,” Nick informed him, pulling a rolled up parchment out of his inner jacket pocket.

 

“A what?” Steve asked as he snatched gold lettered announcement out of Nick’s hands. “His Royal Highness King Steven Grant Rogers, Sentinel of Liberty formally requests that all eligible ladies and gentlemen of the appropriate age attend a ball with the express intent of finding a suitable partner for matrimony?!”

 

“It’s nice, right? I sent them out by courier this morning to all of the surrounding countries with advantageous prospects for marriage,” Nick said, clearly please with himself.

 

“And you didn’t think to tell me about this first?” Steve snarled.

 

“Of course I didn’t, you would’ve forbidden the whole thing. But now you can’t because you are too polite to disappoint all of those people who have traveled so far to meet you,” Nick reasoned.

 

“You can’t do this,” Steve said.

 

Nick shook his head. “I already have. And just in case you decided to back out of this, I’ve invited all of the eligible ladies and gentlemen in our country as well. Providing, of course, that they adhere to the dress code provided at the bottom of the letter. You wouldn’t want to upset all those hard working citizens who are going to be shining up their best outfits so they can see the inside of the palace, would you?”

 

Steve ground his teeth together and blew a frustrated breath out of his nose.

 

Nick smiled and took the parchment out of Steve’s tight grasp. “I’ll take that as a ‘no’ then. I’ll have the royal tailor stop by this afternoon with some fabric samples for your outfit. Can’t have you walking around in last year’s party clothes, now can we?”

 

“Get out,” Steve ordered tightly. Nick laughed and sauntered out the door, completely unconcerned about going behind his king’s back.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

“A ball!” Brock shouted from the dining room.

 

Bucky found himself scurrying quickly back to the room even though he had just served the food. He was responding more to the tone than the words, Brock being excited was rarely a good thing.

 

“Yes, a ball,” Bucky’s stepfather mused in a much quieter tone of voice.

 

Peeking around the door, Bucky could see that his stepfather was stroking his chin as he contemplated the letter in his hand. Bucky knew it had to be the letter that had come from the palace earlier. Nobody that his stepfather did business with had stationery so fine.

 

“This is the perfect opportunity,” he said as he pulled his reading spectacles off his nose. “You must woo King Steven. Charm him. Marry him,” he ordered his sons. “There will never be an opportunity like this again.”

 

“Father,” Brock scoffed, “can you imagine Jasper trying to attract the likes of the king? He’ll bore him to death with talk of strategies. He’ll get sweaty like he does when he’s nervous.”

 

“I heard that King Steven is well read. He’ll probably appreciate my intellect more than your vanity over your muscles,” Jasper spat back.

 

“Boys!” Pierce raised his voice in a sharp tone he rarely used with his sons. “It doesn’t matter which one of you marries him, only that one of you does. The one who does not marry the king will be in a position to arrange an advantageous marriage for the other. There is nothing to fight over.”

 

Bucky took the opportunity to knock on the door and step inside the room to start collecting the used dishes. His stepfather had been distracted enough by the letter to not notice Bucky’s approach, but it was unlikely he would not notice Bucky’s retreat. The punishment for eavesdropping was an extra half hour of exercises when ‘training.’

 

Jasper’s eyes lit up when Bucky leaned over to clear his bread plate. “Father, I’ll need new gloves and my trousers tailored for the ball. I’ll need to send the Soldier on some errands.”

 

“I’ll need him too,” Brock said from across the table. “And I’ll need a new hat.”

 

“We’ll all need him,” Pierce said. “We need to look our best for the ball. He can handle getting all of the clothing ready in addition to his other duties. Can’t you, James?”

 

“Yes, Stepfather,” Bucky said, eyes cast downwards. Going into town to place the millinery orders would be easy enough to fit in with the other business they often had in town, but the alterations would be more difficult.

 

Sewing was not Bucky’s forte. He had improved over the years because of sheer necessity, but it still took him longer to sew a seam than to stitch up his own skin when he cut himself too deeply. He could foresee many sleepless nights in his future trying to straighten hems and fit waistbands.

 

“Good,” Pierce said with a sharp nod of his head. He didn’t bother dismissing Bucky. That was a long learned lesson. Bucky wasn’t dismissed. According to him, Bucky didn’t deserve a dismissal; he should just know that if he wasn’t being given orders, he wasn’t wanted.

 

Most days, dismissals were a good thing. Bucky had no more desire to be around his stepfather or stepbrothers than they wanted to be around him. But today was different. Bucky was reasonably certain that the invitation to the royal ball had included all eligible men and women.

 

Not that Bucky would ever presume to rub elbows with the king, but there would be people of perhaps less elevated stations that he could appeal to for work. He could not be certain that work would be better at another household, but he was willing to take that chance.

 

The ball might be his one opportunity to find new employment. His duties at the household never allowed him time to build relationships or even inquire about jobs in town. If his stepfather knew that he had dallied about, he’d spend an extra hour in training for his insubordination.

 

If Bucky was careful, there might be enough thread to darn up one of his father’s old suits. The fancy ones had been sold or used up for new outfits for his stepfather and stepbrothers years ago, but there was a plain one in good enough condition still sitting in the bottom of Bucky’s trunk. There was a more moth eaten one that was sitting in the linen closet that he could use for extra material to let out the seams of the more intact jacket.

 

Bucky was thankful for following the sentimentality that had made him hide away the garments of a man he barely remembered. He was certain that his father wouldn’t mind his suits being put to good use. After all, he hadn’t come to haunt the Pierces when they’d made Bucky cut up his mother’s good dresses for curtains. Certainly, he wouldn’t begrudge Bucky letting out his coat and trousers to fit his more substantial bulk.

 

With a plan in mind, Bucky went to work on his stepbrother’s garments. He would have to be clever and work on his own garments in-between fittings, but it would be doable. At least his left hand wouldn’t feel the many pricks of a needle that it would suffer from Bucky’s poor sewing skills.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

“I don’t think you should be in here,” Steve chided Natasha as the royal tailor retook his measurements. Steve had tried insisting that there was no need to retake them, but he’d been overruled by too many people to count. “It’s unseemly,” he said as the tailor started taking his inseam.

 

“I’ve seen it all before, Steve,” Nat said as she sharpened the dagger that she kept hidden in the bodice of her gown. It was disguised as a rather ornate brooch. There was a similar one that she wore in her hair on special occasions, and it was rumored that she kept another hidden under her skirts.Steve often wondered how it was that she had never stabbed herself when she walked about with so many weapons on her.

 

“That was different,” Steve argued. “We were in battle.”

 

“You were defending a tent full of wounded soldiers with a large shield. That’s at most a skirmish, not a battle,” Natasha pointed out.

 

“There were men with swords and bows coming after other men who normally would have had swords and bows. That’s a battle,” Steve defended his position.

 

Nat snorted and continued sharpening her dagger. “Have you seen the list of people that you’re supposed to be dancing with at the ball yet?” she asked innocently.

 

“How did you manage to see it? I remember throwing it into the fire shortly after Nick sent my page to deliver it to me like the coward he is,” Steve fumed.

 

“Did you think that was the only copy he had?” Nat asked, amused smile on her lips. “Steve, you really need to quit being so trusting.”

 

“That’s what I have you and Nick for,” Steve reminded her. “I have eyes and ears all over the place.”

 

“And what are you going to do if one of us turns on you?” Nat asked. “Trusting blindly can get you killed.”

 

“If you or Nick try to attack me, I’ll call the other to defend me. And if you decide to both attack, I’ll duck and let you kill each other,” Steve told her.

 

“That’s a ridiculous plan,” Nat pointed out.

 

“Well, it’s not like I can tell you my actual plan. If I tell you, you’ll know what I’m going to do if you do attack me. I’d have to come up with a new plan. If I don’t tell you my plan, then you don’t know what I’m going to do,” Steve reasoned.

 

Nat tilted her head and nodded, shoving the newly sharpened blade back it its ornate sheath. “Not bad,” she conceded.

 

“I am supposed to run an entire country, you know. I’m not dull of wit,” Steve reminded her.

 

“I don’t think you’re dumb, Steve. I just think that you’re in a tenuous situation.”

 

“I know,” Steve assured her. “And I do intend to do something about it, but pinning hopes of marriage on a party is ridiculous.”

 

“You have to meet the right person somewhere,” Nat said. “Lots of people meet at parties. Your parents did.”

 

“And they managed to have one of the most sickly children to ever have been birthed into the royal line,” Steve caustically reminded her.

 

Nat shrugged. “You turned out okay.”

 

“Yeah. With the help of a sorcerer that owed Peggy a favor because she saved his head from the gallows,” Steve said. “I was set to be the shortest king ever on the throne of Amure Rica.”

 

“Good thing you met her when you did then,” Nat said. “Maybe you should send her another fruit basket.”

 

“Peggy would probably want alcohol,” Steve said with a fond smile. Memories of Peggy were good ones. She’d kept his head above water when his mother died. She’d kept him from dying before he became old enough to claim his throne, and then found a way to make sure he didn’t die before his first year anniversary of sitting on it.

 

“I’m sure you have something in the cellars,” Nat commented wryly. “Come on, Steve. You have to know what you’re looking for in a person. You would’ve married Peggy if given the chance.”

 

“Yeah, I would have. But Peggy was, she was one in a million. The last time I had felt that comfortable with someone, I was with… Well, it doesn’t matter who I was with. The point is that I can’t just pick somebody out of a crowd and say that I want to marry them.”

 

“Nobody is asking you to,” Nat said.

 

“Yeah. Right. You know as well as I do that Nick’ has a few more tricks up his sleeves. His job is to get me married. I know that all of the Lords, Barons and Earls are pushing for me to settle down, and Nick is going to make sure that I have a baby dandling on my knee if it’s the last thing he does.”

 

“I’m not disagreeing with you,” Nat said, “but I also don’t recall you being a pushover when it came to anybody’s will but your own. Nick is a force to be reckoned with, but if I’m going to be placing bets on sheer stubbornness? My money is on you.”

 

“You shouldn’t be gambling at all,” Steve grumbled. “You’re a high standing member of my court.”

 

“Where’s the fun in that?” Nat teased.

 

Steve sighed and gave her the best disapproving look that he could summon.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Dark brown wasn’t Bucky’s best color. It clashed with his complexion, making him look yellow. It made his bruises look even more yellow, but his shirt and trousers covered those.

 

Of course, it didn’t matter what Bucky looked like so long as he appeared honest and trustworthy enough to get hired. Looking unattractive might even be a plus. He had overheard more than one tale of a master or mistress caught sleeping with the help. There was always gossip and hell to pay on the part of the servant. The employers were never at fault.

 

The seams of the cobbled together overcoat weren’t quite straight, a fact highlighted by the way they bulged if he flexed his arms. The one trouser leg was shorter than the other, and the hems were terribly uneven, but it was the best that he had been able to do while still tending his regular chores and making certain that the Pierces looked their best.

 

What did it matter that Bucky’s appearance wasn’t perfect? His masters’ outfits were immaculate, and their happiness meant that he was able to avoid both their wrath and their notice. He helped them into their coats and adjusted their cravats. He polished their boots with such vigor that had he brushed any harder he might have worn straight through the leather.

 

Only his stepfather’s eyes lingered on him as he helped his stepbrothers into the fine coach that he had hired. Bucky had traded his finest pumpkin to secure the pair of black horses that drew it, and more ears of corn than it was worth to engage the services of the driver who still had all his teeth.

 

“What are you up to?” Alexander Pierce whispered threateningly in Bucky’s ear.

 

“Up to?” Bucky foolishly played the innocent card and earned a cuff to his ear for his troubles.

 

“You are much to attentive to my sons’ desires, too chipper for the amount of hours you have worked. What. Are. You. Up. To?” Pierce snarled.

 

“I only wish to see one of your sons married,” Bucky lied. “Higher position for you means that you might hire another servant. Or, at least, I will be tending to one less person.”

 

His stepfather stared at him as if he could see inside Bucky’s head. Bucky held his gaze at a deferential point, refusing to challenge or look away from his stepfather’s gaze.

 

“I don’t believe you, James,” Pierce said after a long minute. “I have had you underfoot for far too many years for me to believe that you would ever feel anything but contempt for my two boys. You have always thought yourself better than them. You have always been contemptuous of them in your own, pathetic way. Even when you don’t even know yourself, your pride mocks us.”

 

Bucky did not respond to his stepfather’s accusations. He had learned long ago that it would only earn him more castigation if he tried to defend himself. There was no appeasing his stepfather. No matter how many times he took Bucky to the cellar, the knowledge of his stepfather’s cruelty remained. Perhaps it was because Alexander Pierce’s face was both the last thing he saw going into that dreaded place, and the first thing he saw coming out of it.

 

“Fine,” Pierce spat, all controlled rage, “if you won’t tell me, I’ll have to go see.”

 

Bucky closed his eyes in dismay as his stepfather stormed off, feet pounding on the rickety stairs that lead up to the drafty, old attic. Bucky’s new suit was hanging off a nail on the wall, in plain sight for anyone who entered his room. He hadn’t wanted it to wrinkle, and he had no closet to hang it in.

 

“What is taking father so long?” Jasper wondered from inside the carriage.

 

“That idiot servant has upset him again,” Brock sneered. “I keep telling father we should just dispose of him once I’m married to the king. We can’t have the likes of him boasting of having served on us.”

 

“Too true, my brother. Too true,” Jasper agreed, “though I will be the one to marry King Steven.”

 

“Only in your dreams,” Brock scoffed.

 

Any more of the conversation that Bucky might have overheard was drowned out by a shout of rage. Bucky’s stepfather thundered down the stairs so forcefully that the dried old wood in the middle step of the staircase cracked with the force of it.

 

“What is this?” he bellowed, thrusting Bucky’s suit in his face. “Did you think to come to the ball?”

 

Bucky kept silent.

 

“Answer me!” Pierce ordered.

 

“All of the eligible men and women of the kingdom were invited, stepfather. I did not wish to embarrass you by being seen with the family. I have no designs on the king. I only wished…”

 

Pierce’s hand struck him across the cheek. “Your wishes are not of consequence. You will not be going to the ball,” he said as he pulled at the seams of the coat. When they didn’t give, he ran for the letter opener that he kept in his desk. He stabbed it viciously into the old fabric, tearing it this way and that until it went from the finest clothes in Bucky’s possession to the worst of them.

 

“That was my father’s suit,” Bucky said dumbly as he stared at the ruined garment.

 

“You should be thankful to me,” Pierce said, rage disappearing off his face as his practiced, calm demeanor took over. “You would have made a fool of yourself there. You have no table manners.”

 

Bucky nodded at his stepfather’s words automatically, too dazed to be able to do anything else. He should have known that he couldn’t get his activities past his stepfather’s ever watchful gaze. Brock and Jasper were fools, but Alexander wasn’t.

 

“Cheer up. I saved the gloves. You can use them in the garden,” Pierce said as he slapped the threadbare gentlemen’s gloves at Bucky’s shoulder and walked out the front door, uncaring that his stepson didn’t even reach to keep them from falling to the floor.

 

A chorus of cheers and compliments erupted from his stepbrothers when their father joined them in the carriage. They had quite enjoyed the show of Bucky being put in his place. The carriage took off before Bucky could hear a lot of their joy, but it was enough to crush him just that tiny bit more.

 

He had never thought they would want him to go to the ball, had banked on them being set against it. After all, he had tailored his father’s suit in secret. There hadn’t even been a stray thought of them giving him pity, let alone liking him. But even knowing how much his stepfamily despised him, it hurt to hear the words.

 

Even though he could admit that going to the ball and finding a new employer had been nothing but a pipe dream, it still stung that even that had been taken away from him. It would have been nice to speak to people who were at least civil in their addresses. He could have indulged a little longer in the fantasy that he could go somewhere else to work and nobody would question his arm or broken mind.

 

But the truth was cruel and ever present. Even if he were to steal some of his stepbrother’s clothes for the night, he could never leave his familial home. His arm alone would attract too much attention. People would gossip. His stepfather would come for him, claiming that he was ill in the head, a recluse who had escaped the warm care of his family.

 

It had happened before, or so Bucky thought. He was reasonably sure that the handwriting on the letter he found behind the stove was his own. The scrawl was sloppy, written in haste. Sometimes, after a visit to the cellar, his handwriting would change. There were things he had tried to remember by scribbling notes and hiding them under the floorboards in his room. Many of them featured slightly different handwriting; some of them were so different from his current handwriting that they could have been jotted down by a completely different person.

 

There was always the chance that one of his stepbrothers, or more likely his stepfather, had written the note to trick him into staying. But Bucky had to admit that the chances of that were slim. There was more than a passing resemblance to how Bucky’s handwriting currently looked. The hiding places wasn’t an immediately obvious one to choose.

 

The ovens tended to overheat from years of not having their insulation properly repaired. One would have to put the note in the exact right spot to keep it from catching on fire from the heat. It was unlikely that Pierce knew that or knew that Bucky regularly cleaned that exact spot to keep the stove from setting the kitchen on fire.

 

The thought depressed Bucky even further. While he would normally hide out in the kitchen by the hearth, the warmth of the room held no appeal after thinking on the note that he had found there. So he walked out into the frost covered outdoors, reveling in the crunch of frozen grass underneath his cracked boots.

 

“You are unhappy, yes?” a voice startled him from the bushes. Bucky froze, trying to figure out where the voice was coming from.

 

“You are frightened. Do not be. I made you,” the voice continued as a small man came out of the darkness. “Well, part of you anyhow,” he said, gesturing at Bucky’s metal arm.

 

“I don’t know you,” Bucky said.

 

“No. No. Of course not. Your stepfather got rid of me as soon as I was no longer useful. Shipped off to some facility far away as if I was a tool to be left in storage. Bah,” the small man spat at the ground.

 

“Who are you?” Bucky demanded.

 

“I am Arnim Zola, Fairy Godfather and sometime scientist. Your fairy godfather, in fact.”

 

“I don’t have a fairy godfather,” Bucky protested. “Do you think I’d be living like this if I did?”

 

“You are right, of course. You should not be living like this. You were meant for so much more, _made_ for so much more. You are a perfect weapon, and what are you? A servant boy. An attack dog to be called and disposed of instead of the glorious perfection of assassination that you were meant to be.”

 

Bucky took a step backwards. “You’re crazy.”

 

“Ah, ah,” Zola said as he stamped his long, black cane on the frost covered ground. Blue tendrils of something curled out into the air and wrapped around Bucky’s feet, keeping him immobile. “I have a proposition for you. You wish to go to the ball, yes?”

 

Bucky didn’t answer him.

 

“I can send you to the ball,” Zola coaxed, “I can make all of your wishes come true. I just need you to do one, little thing for me. Kill King Steven.”

 

Bucky looked down at the magic shackles holding him in place. “It looks like you have enough power to do that on your own.”

 

“Power. Bah. My power is useless! Wasted on the wishes and whims of children like yourself. Science I can bend to my will; magic is fickle,” Zola ranted.

 

“I don’t think my wish is to be bound,” Bucky pointed out, frustration or perhaps shock loosening his tongue towards Zola when he would never dare to his stepfather.

 

“Your wish is to be free. I can help you, so my magic allows me to use it to offer you the chance to attain your dreams. I’ve been doing this a very long time, my boy. I have learned a few things over the years,” Zola informed him.

 

“Why would I want to kill King Steven?” Bucky asked. “I’ve got no beef with him. He sounds like a good king.”

 

“Good? Your stepfather believes one of your stepbrothers will marry this king. Do you think any good person would marry one of them? Do you think any smart man would? No. So there you have it. King Steven is evil or stupid or both. Should such a man be running any country?”

 

Bucky shook his head. The words that Zola spoke made sense. He wasn’t exactly sure why. He felt as if he should question the man’s words, but there was no flaw he could figure out to pick at.

 

“See? So I can get you into the ball. You assassinate the king, and you can leave your stepfather and stepbrothers behind,” Zola said cheerfully.

 

“But how does that help me leave?” Bucky asked.

 

“The power of magic,” Zola answered. “You free the country from that horrid king, and the magic will free you from your stepfather as a reward.”

 

“And just how am I supposed to kill the king? I’m no warrior,” Bucky said.

 

“Not a warrior?” Zola laughed. “And just what do you think that your stepfather has trained you for? All those exercises and brain teasers: they were training you to do what must be done. How many memories are you missing? You have no idea what you are capable of,” Zola explained with glee in his eyes.

 

Bucky shook his head. “I couldn’t…”

 

“You already have,” Zola corrected, “and now you are going to stop him. Turn his weapon against his plans and free yourself and thousands of others. Make something good out of your life.”

 

Bucky had to admit that Zola’s words made sense. There was no way that he could ever know what had happened in all of those moments that were missing from his head. There were nightmares that crept up on him though. Full of blood and screams, they would chase him into waking even when he desperately needed to rest. Could he afford to think that Zola was lying? Could he risk his stepfather gaining control of an entire kingdom?

 

“Okay,” Bucky agreed. “I’ll go to the ball.”

 

“Excellent!” Zola cheered as he stamped his magical cane on the ground and the tendrils of magic disappeared from around Bucky’s body.

 

“You will need clothes, of course,” Zola said, waving the end of the cane at him.

 

Swirls of magic glowed around him, blinding Bucky’s eyes when he dared to look directly at them. When the magic subsided, his tattered and worn clothes were replaced with a fine, black suit. The shirt underneath it was a pristine white. His shoes were highly polished black leather. Even his hair was pulled back from his face into a neat tail.

 

His skin was cleaner than it had felt in years as well. It was as if he had been allowed to bathe in warm water with fine soap instead of the cold baths that he hurriedly took whenever he could.

 

“Ah. Yes. You will need a way to get there as well,” Zola said as he thumped his cane on the ground again and again. The pumpkin that Bucky had left out in the garden to go to seed rolled out to the gravel drive and turned into a golden carriage. The squash that he had left beside them turned into a driver and footman. Two of the pruned back rose bushes turned into a pair of fine, black stallions.

 

Bucky gaped in disbelief. “My rose bushes are horses?”

 

“Plants can’t talk,” Zola explained. “I once made the mistake of transforming a dog and a cat. Nasty business that. The two of them never shut up and bickered all night long. If you want to keep a secret, go with plants.”

 

Bucky nodded as if that made sense. “I didn’t expect to be so fine looking. How am I supposed to blend into the crowd?” he asked.

 

“How did you expect to get close to the king if you look poor?” Zola countered. “Rich people do not see poor people. It is the way of the world.”

 

Having been invisible to all unless they were angry with him, Bucky couldn’t disagree with Zola’s pronouncement.

 

“Off you go then,” Zola said, ushering Bucky towards the coach. “You kill the king if you never make it to his party.”

 

“But what about my hands?” Bucky asked, dragging his feet as the smaller man tried to drag him to the coach.

 

“What about… Oh. Yes. You can’t go around the ball with that magnificent hand that I crafted you showing, can you?” Zola said as he waved his cane in the air instead of striking it against the ground as he had been doing.

 

He handed Bucky a pair of white leather gloves that were perhaps the softest and finest he had ever felt. “Now get going,” he said, shoving Bucky into the coach and slamming the door shut. Bucky couldn’t right himself on the seat before the carriage sped off, leaving his fairy godfather in the distance.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

“You are embarrassing me,” Nick hissed as he plopped down in the seat next to Steve’s.

 

“Is that so?” Steve asked with a wicked smile.

 

“Have you even bothered to mingle with all these people? They came here specifically to see you,” Nick said.

 

Steve shook his head. “No. They came here to eat my food, gawk at my castle and pray that I get so drunk I bed one of them. I’m not even sure half of the people who have flirted with me tonight even care about marrying me.”

 

Nick sighed. “Other men would be thrilled to be in your position.”

 

“Other men aren’t in my position,” Steven reminded him.

 

“Your true love could be out there waiting for you to get off your ass. Are you really just going to sit here and mope instead?” Nick asked.

 

“Nick, you’re fooling yourself if you think I have a true love waltzing around out there. That stuff is so rare that it makes magic look like a common, everyday occurrence. I’ve already had my miracle,” Steve opined as he looked down at the broad hands that used to be so skinny and pale.

 

“Spare me,” Nick exasperatedly sighed. “If you’re not waiting for your one true love to show up, what the hell are you waiting for?”

 

“Somebody who is smarter than the Pierce boys,” Steve quipped as he pointed his wine glass in the direction of the two boys and their untrustworthy father. “They’ve been following me around like gnats.”

 

“They’re well respected members of society. You could do worse,” Nick said. “They have an immaculate house and grounds and only one servant and a part time groom and driver. At the least, they know hard word and frugality. You can’t keep an estate like Rose Hill running on the power of one servant.”

 

“They didn’t seem very down to earth to me,” Steve pointed out.

 

“Really?” Nick asked with a note of genuine surprise in his voice.

 

“You sound shocked,” Steven observed.

 

“It’s just that I know their father. Alexander Pierce saved my life. I can’t imagine him raising his children to be shallow.”

 

“Maybe they took after their mother,” Steve mused.

 

“Maybe,” Nick replied, voice sounding off in thought.

 

Steve contented himself with pouring another glass of wine even though he wouldn’t feel its effects. The Great Wizard Erskine had said that there would be consequences to the magic he used to make Steve strong and healthy. The lack of ability to enjoy anything but the taste of alcohol was one of them.

 

There had also been dire warnings of bad becoming evil, but that had never been too much of a concern. Steve’s heart had never been the kind to settle on the course of evil. Erskine had believed him when Steve had sworn that all he wanted was to do good for his kingdom and people.

 

A movement on the upper balcony caught Steve’s eye before he could wander farther down memory lane. There was a man with dark hair pulled away from his face and arms that made the sleeves of his suit cling to him. He was handsome, to be sure, but other than that, Steve could not say what had attracted his attention.

 

Steve only knew that his eyes stayed with the man as he made his way down the grand staircase and out onto the dance floor. Without thinking about it, Steve rose from his chair, causing a flurry of his guards to rise with him at the sudden movement.

 

“Where are you going?” Nick asked suspiciously.

 

“You wanted me to mingle; I’m going to go mingle,” Steve said, gesturing at the mystery man who had come into his palace.

 

Nick may have continued to talk as Steve walked away, but Steve was too focused on the other man to pay heed to Nick’s blathering. It was difficult to cut a path through the crowded dance floor. For every person who made way for their king, there were another two who tried to grab the opportunity to try to endear themselves to him with compliments and views of their best assets.

 

By the time that Steve made it across the ballroom floor, he had lost sight of the mysterious man. He wanted to curse at some of the fools that had held him up on his way.

 

“Are you list, your highness?” a low voice rasped to his left.

 

Steve spun around to see the man he had been pursuing cloaked in the shadows of an ornate pillar. Only his eyes moved as he watched Steve approach. They were beautiful eyes, Steve noted, icy blue like the color of the sky when the whole world was frozen below it.

 

Steve blushed at the turn his thoughts had taken and ducked his head in an attempt to cover his embarrassment. “I was looking for you,” he admitted, stepping closer to the man.

 

“Yeah?” the man’s face lit up for a second before creasing in confusion.

 

“I was wondering if you’d like to dance,” Steve blurted out, hoping to ease the wrinkles on the other man’s forehead. He had obviously put them there by pursuing the other man. Any person might show confusion at being chased down by a king.

 

“I… sure,” the other man said. “I mean. Yes, it would be an honor.”

 

Steve grinned widely and extended his hand to the stranger. Their gloves prevented any heat from passing through the touch, but the pressure alone made Steve’s heart pound in unpredictable ways. It was bewildering and exciting all at once.

 

Where the dancefloor members had crowded him when he had tried to cross it earlier, they readily parted when Steve pulled his partner along behind him. Before the orchestra could strike up its next tune, he could already hear the murmurs of gossip starting as he settled his hand onto the small of the other man’s back.

 

Then the music started and the rest of the world melted into a blur of faces as they danced. After the first few steps, it was obvious that the man with the blue eyes was a bit rusty at dancing. Though his clothing betrayed an immaculately kept physique, it was quite obvious he had not earned his muscles from the art of dance.

 

But he was not uneducated in dance either. His form was good, and he did not falter as someone unlearned would be. Wherever this man had been during Steve’s other balls and parties, he had not been off dancing.

 

“What is your name?” Steve asked as he deftly turned them away from the prying ears of some of the more prominent gossips of the court.

 

“Pardon?” the man asked, eyes widened as if he hadn’t expected Steve to want to know the name of his dance partner.

 

“Your name,” Steve enunciated louder. “You know who I am, but I do not have the same advantage. I’d hate to have to keep thinking you as ‘the man with the blue eyes’ all night.”

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Bucky opened and closed his mouth a few times. He had never expected the king to notice him much beyond Bucky’s face being the last thing he saw as he died. There was never a plan made for having to introduce himself, let alone dancing with the man he had been sent to assassinate.

 

“James,” Bucky croaked out. He couldn’t even be certain that ‘James’ was actually his name as no one save his stepfather ever referred to him by one, but King Steven would have no way of knowing otherwise.

 

“James,” Steven repeated slowly as if perplexed by the name Bucky had given.

 

“You don’t like it?” Bucky asked, somehow nervous that it displeased the king.

 

“No, I just… expected something else for some reason,” Steven explained as he started moving to another tempo as the orchestra switched songs.

 

Bucky didn’t reply, instead focusing on the movements of his feet and not tripping. Dancing was nothing at all like trading blows or fighting with knives – no matter what his stepfather had drilled into his head. It was terrifying and thrilling and forced a man to look into the eyes of his future victim. Bucky decided he didn’t like dancing.

 

“Something wrong?” Steven asked.

 

“I’m not used to dancing,” Bucky admitted, coming closer to the truth than was comfortable.

 

“Of course,” Steven said with an understanding smile. Instead of keeping them away from the other dancers as he had been, he started moving them closer and closer to the other pairs before ceasing to dance entirely towards the back of the room.

 

Though they had stopped, Steven did not let go of Bucky’s hand. Instead he gripped it tighter as he continued moving backwards towards a door hidden at the back of the ballroom. He held a finger to his mischievously smiling lips, warning Bucky to keep silent until they tripped through the doorway into a gallery of some sort.

 

“You have no idea how much I wished to be out of that room,” Steven said as soon as he shut the door behind them.

 

“Why throw a party if you don’t like them?” Bucky asked as he cast his eyes about the room. There was nothing that was an immediately obvious weapon that he could see. The swell of relief that he felt at having an excuse not to immediately finish his mission was disturbing.

 

“Truth be told, it wasn’t even my idea,” Steven told him as they walked down the length of the room, surrounded by portraits and busts of former rulers. “My councilors are getting nervous because I haven’t married yet. They thought that by throwing a party would solve that.”

 

“And were they right?” Bucky asked distractedly as he stared at a portrait of a dog that was for some reason hung amongst all the monarchs. He tilted his head to look at Steven only to see high color on his cheeks, speechless.

 

Bucky could not figure out the reason that his words had managed to wrong foot a king, so he turned back to the drawing of the dog. Paintings were simpler than people. The portraits at home never spat insults in Bucky’s direction when he forgot to dust them for a few days.

 

“Do you like it?” Steven asked. “The picture of the dog,” he clarified as if Bucky had been staring at one of the other paintings while the king had tried to collect himself.

 

“I’m wondering why it is in this gallery,” Bucky said.

 

“I drew it,” Steven said. “Kingston was my father’s hunting dog. He kept me company after father died. I insisted that he deserved to be in the Hall of Monarchs like the rest of the royal family. Mother thought I was going to join my father in death any day, so she acceded to my demands.”

 

Bucky silently wondered what it would be like to have a parent care for him so much that traditions would be broken for him. “Do you have any other drawings?” he asked instead of sharing his depressing thoughts.

 

“Not here, but I do have some in my study?” Steven said as if there was a question being asked.

 

“Are they as nice as these?” Bucky asked in return, hoping that would continue the conversation.

 

“They’re better!” Steven exclaimed as he took hold of Bucky’s hand again and started leading him to a different door than the one they had come through.

 

They raced through the halls, dodging guards that had been sent to retrieve the king from wherever he was hiding. The study was dim when they finally reached it, lit by nothing but the moon, stars and a few torches that were burning outside the large window that overlooked the gardens.

 

Steven dropped Bucky’s hand to search for and light the candles around the room. While he moved, it was easy to spot the knife that sat on the large, carved mahogany desk that stood in the center of the room. It wasn’t as sharp as the knives that Bucky’s stepfather had trained him to use, but it would be as deadly.

 

The knife was easy to pick up and hide in his sleeve without Steven’s notice. The burning uneasiness that settled in Bucky’s stomach was more difficult to deal with.

 

“Here,” Steven said as he walked over to the desk with a portfolio of drawings in his hands. He spread them over the desk, letting the flickering candles illuminate them.

 

There were sketches of all manner of things. Some bore the broad strokes of a picture hastily scribbled out while others had clearly had more time put into them, but they were all well-crafted. They rivalled or eclipsed the works of art his stepfather sometimes brought home from his journeys.

 

“They’re beautiful,” Bucky whispered, tracing the outline of the old tree that grew in the middle of what used to be the trade district. When they had enlarged the city, they had made a bigger square for tradesmen to hock their wares.

 

“I used to meet my friend under that tree when I was little,” Steven said. “I have good memories of it.”

 

Bucky nodded because he couldn’t tell a similar story. He didn’t know why he liked the tree, he just did. He always tried to pass by it when he went into town on errands. He used to have the feeling that something might be waiting for him there like a wonderful surprise. That feeling was long gone, but he still liked to stop by the tree for the memory of it.

 

“These are some of my friends,” Steven explained as he put some portraits over the sketch of the tree. “Nat, Sam, Peggy,” he pointed to each one, leaning over the table. The light shifted when he moved, highlighting the sharp edges of his face.

 

Bucky felt his mouth go dry. Now would be the perfect time to attack. King Steven’s back was turned. There were no guards around. There was not even a need for the knife. Bucky could easily gain leverage and snap Steven’s neck. It would be so easy.

 

Mustering his courage, Bucky reached out. But what had been meant to grab and force faltered along the way. His fingers touched the side of Steven’s face, thin leather dragging across skin.

 

Steven turned at the touch. His eyes settled on Bucky’s lips; his tongue darted out to moisten his own.

 

“James,” he whispered before leaning down to kiss him.

 

To his knowledge, Bucky had never been kissed before. It was a strange sensation, clumsy and awkward as his nose bumped against the kings. Yet somehow it made his heart pound and his ribs ache as his lungs tried to breathe.

 

“That was awful,” Steven giggled, breath brushing against Bucky’s cheek as he exhaled. He seemed to have no intention of moving away, and Bucky found that he did not mind the closeness.

 

There was no way that he could kill the man before him. Bucky’s heart ached at the mere thought. It would be impossible to take the life from that smile.

 

There was also no way that he could stay. A kiss from a king did not make Bucky any less of a servant. He had no money and no connections save those to his stepfather. Claiming Alexander Pierce as kin would either lead to Bucky’s insanity being declared again or worse. His stepfather would use him to control the king as surely as he planned to use his own sons.

 

“Steven,” Bucky croaked as he pushed the man an arm’s length away.

 

“Steve,” Steven said, “call me Steve.”

 

Bucky closed his eyes in pain. “Steve. I need you to listen to me.”

 

“Of course,” Steve promised. “James…”

 

“You cannot trust Alexander Pierce or his sons. Whatever you do, you cannot marry one of them,” he rasped, eyes flicking away from Steve’s face and staring at the far wall to bolster his courage.

 

“Marry one of them? Why on earth would I think of marrying one of them?” Steve sounded hurt, confused. That was fine though. So long as he believed Bucky about his stepfather, nothing else mattered.

 

“He will try to woo you. He is very good at getting his way,” Bucky cautioned. “You must not let him.”

 

“James,” Steve said, stepping back into Bucky’s personal space. “Why do you think I would marry someone other than you?”

 

Bucky’s eyes flew up to Steve’s face. “No, Steve,” he warned, “you don’t mean that.”

 

“Of course I do,” Steve assured him. “Tell me you can’t feel this between us. Tell me that you can’t feel your heart next to mine. I knew it as soon as I held you in my arms.”

 

Bucky closed his eyes in pain. There had to be some mistake, some cruel trick of magic making Steve think that he had found his one true love in Bucky. His fairy godfather’s spells must have cloaked Bucky in the guise of true love so that he could get close to the king.

 

Steve’s hand cupped Bucky’s cheek in affection. He must have pulled his gloves off at some point as his warm skin that rubbed across Bucky’s face as he cradled it.

 

“There is nothing to be afraid of,” Steven assured him.

 

“I’m not afraid,” Bucky said.

 

“Then what is wrong?” Steve asked.

 

Bucky pulled his face away from Steve’s hand and looked at the floor. He opened his mouth to say something, anything that would ease the blow that Steve’s magic addled mind was wrong about Bucky being his true love when he saw a faint, green glow coming from his boots. Their shiny black tips were giving way to the dull, dirty, cracked leather of his work boots. Somewhere a clock started chiming just before the big one in the bell tower started ringing the chimes of midnight.

 

He jerked completely away from Steve, stumbling as he ran towards the door of the study and out into the hallway. There had to be a time limit on the spell that his fairy godfather had cast even though Zola hadn’t mentioned it.

 

“James!” Steve shouted as he followed after Bucky. “James, Wait!” he called.

 

“I’m sorry,” Bucky shouted over his shoulder as he ran. His words were an inadequate apology as far as words went, but he could come up with nothing better. There would be no opportunity for gentle goodbyes.

 

There was not enough time to make it back to the main entrance of the castle before Zola’s magic undid itself, so Bucky took the first door that he came across that looked like it lead outside. There was thankfully a staircase that lead out to the gardens that Steve’s library overlooked.

 

As Bucky bolted down the stone staircase to plunge himself into the shadows of the night, his finely woven trousers gave way to the torn and mended, rough cloth of his work pants. His hair came undone and blew in the wind as the fancy tie that held it in place disappeared.

 

Just as he was about to take the last step into the garden, a hand closed around his metal one.

 

 

“Wait,” Steve asked plaintively.

 

“I can’t,” Bucky answered him honestly as he turned around to look at Steve. The darkness masked the degradation of his clothes, but it couldn’t mask the hurt that showed in Steve’s face.

 

Steve’s eyes widened in shock. His skin paled. For a second, Bucky presumed that he had been found out, that Steve could see through the darkness to the clothing that was no longer fine.

 

“Bucky?” Steve gasped, grip tightening on the hand he was holding. If that hand were still flesh and not metal it would have throbbed with pain.

 

The shouts and footsteps of guards sounded within the hallways. There would be no escape if he lingered. So he twisted his hand free, leaving nothing but the fine, white glove in Steve’s grasp.He ran into the darkness to the chorus of shouts from guards obeying their king’s orders to find his James.

 

But the joke was on them. By the time that Bucky scaled the garden wall to escape the confines of the palace, there was nothing left of King Steven’s James.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

When Bucky arrived home, he couldn’t make himself work on getting the bathwater warmed for his stepbrothers or late night tea for his stepfather. He tried to go to work, but couldn’t. A single leather glove still clung to his hand as desperately as Steve had.

 

Looking at the glove brought back memories of the night. It made Bucky’s heart twist in agony at the thought of it.

 

“Bucky,” he whispered to his reflection in the glass window of his attic room. The name haunted him. It sounded right. It sounded like it fit something that the name James did not. It had sounded like something that was his, like he had always thought of himself as ‘Bucky’ but never voiced the thought.

 

A loud crash sounded down the stairs.

 

“What have you done, Zola!” Pierce shouted.

 

“What have I done? What have you done? Stealing my greatest creation from me and using him as a servant. He was made to conquer countries, not better your wealth,” Zola sneered.

 

“He WAS conquering countries. What you don’t understand is that politics requires a delicate touch, not the bombastic displays of insanity that your precious Red Skull practiced with his sorcery,” Pierce snarled. “Now you’ve exposed him to the world. The KING is searching for him.”

 

Zola laughed a dark, terrible laugh. “That was the point. He was supposed to kill the king, then the spell wears off as he is trying to escape. The poor servant would be killed for his crimes. Your name would have been ruined, and nobody would be able to use my creation again!”

 

“Luckily for me, your plan did not work out. Now you are going to listen to me. You make it so that nobody can recognize him,” Pierce ordered.

 

“I can’t,” Zola said.

 

“You just did,” Brock said, his voice not floating through the floorboards as clearly as his father’s enraged one.

 

“Oh. But he wanted to be somebody different for the night. I just twisted that wish just like I twisted his wish to be whole again. You do remember that, don’t you? When you pushed him from that attic and broke his arm so badly you came crawling to me for help?” Zola asked, voice sickly sweet.

 

“Well, I don’t need you now,” Pierce snarled. “It would be convenient if you could make him unrecognizable though magic, but scars will do just as nicely, and I can kill you very easily.”

 

Bucky swallowed, hands shaking as he started throwing his meager belongings into a sack. There was no way he could stay and allow Pierce to mutilate him. He would run farther this time. If his stepfather hunted him down, he would get himself arrested or thrown in an asylum.

 

“Going somewhere?” Jasper asked.

 

Bucky froze and whirled around to face his stepbrother.

 

“They make a lot of noise, huh?” Jasper asked. “Enough that even your paranoid ears couldn’t hear me coming up the stairs. Now tell me, what do you think father is going to do to you when I tell him you were going to run away again?”

 

Bucky stared at his stepbrother and felt only hate. Anger welled up inside of him. “You aren’t going to tell him anything,” he snarled as he advanced towards Jasper.

 

Jasper looked on smugly. “And why won’t I?”

 

Bucky reached out and snapped Jasper’s neck, lowering his body down to the floor silently. “Because dead men can’t talk,” he whispered.

 

“...you don’t understand that his programming has been activated! He will need to be wiped if you expect me to work magic on him again,” Zola was shouting when Bucky tuned back into the fight going on down the stairs.

 

Bucky shivered as he finished throwing a sack of clothing together. He opened the window, grateful for the shouting voices that covered the otherwise audible squeak it always made. The trellis that he climbed down was old and rotten, but the rose bushes that had been trained to grow up it were sturdy enough to slow his descent.

 

Thorns stabbed him, but he ignored the pain. Anything would be better than being stuck in his stepfather’s cellar. With quick steps, he hurried away from the house.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

“I’m telling you that it was Bucky,” Steve insisted for what felt like the fiftieth time.

 

Nick shook his head. “You also said that you thought he was your true love.”

 

“He is,” Steve said as calmly as he could.

 

“Steve,” Nat cut in, “isn’t that just a bit illogical. You haven’t seen this guy I how many years? You know that he was cloaked in magic. Why not another disguise? Why can’t your love for him be the result of some magic trick?”

 

“You weren’t there,” Steve retorted. “You weren’t… you don’t know how it feels, how I feel.”

 

“Feelings are irrelevant,” Nick said, slapping his hand down on the table. “That man, whoever he is, waltzed in here and suddenly you’re head over heels in love with him?”

 

“That was the point of your ball, wasn’t it?” Steve snapped. “I don’t care what either of you say or do. But if you find him, you bring him to me and ONLY to me. You do not question, threaten or otherwise intimidate him. Am I clear?”

 

“Yes,” Natasha said quietly.

 

“Nick?” Steve asked when his councilor said nothing.

 

“I don’t like this,” Nick muttered, “but I’ll do it.”

 

“Good,” Steve said with a firm nod. “Dismissed.”

 

Nick stomped out the door, but Natasha stayed in her seat.

 

“Something you wanted to add?” Steve asked.

 

“You said he had a metal hand,” she stated plainly.

 

“I thought it looked like a metal hand. It could have been something else,” Steve reminded her.

 

Natasha shook her head. “You know that there is an assassin out there who has one. They call him the abomination.”

 

“I know,” Steve admitted, “and I know that he was probably here to kill me.”

 

Nat’s eyes widened, “And you still want to marry him and live happily ever after?”

 

“It’s not that simple. I… I can feel him in my heart. I can remember that feeling from when I was young. I never felt safer than when I was with Bucky. I never felt like I could lose him,” Steve explained.

 

“And now that you’re an adult, it’s worse,” Natasha surmised.

 

Steve shrugged. “I guess they meant what they said about hormones making true love sing truer.”

 

Natasha snorted. “If your dick sings, sure.”

 

“That’s rude,” Steve said with a smile. The smile vanished a second later. “Find him for me,” he pleaded.

 

Natasha stood. “I’ll do my best,” she promised.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

The fire that Bucky lit was bright against the backdrop of the trees. The thin covering of snow on the ground sizzled when stray sparks hit it. The shadows danced in the tree branches as the flames flickered, growing and shrinking as Bucky poked at it with the stick he had picked up from the snow covered ground.

 

Normally, he would be concerned about somebody seeing the fire, but he had marched far into the woods to avoid anyone’s notice. The hour was late as well. Even if one could see his flames from the road, there was little change that anyone would be out at two hours past midnight. Even if they were, chances were slim that they would be sober enough to give the light of his fire any thought.

 

Nighttime was crueler than the day. If Bucky slept, his dreams were unkind. He never used to dream when he was at home. There was no time for it. There had only been waking hours of servitude and blessed unconsciousness before he woke to work again.

 

Now that he was on his own, there was more than enough time for rest. He supposed that wasn’t true for most men that ran from their troubles. But those men were likely used to full bellies and comfortable beds that allowed them more than three hours of sleep per night. Bucky was used to being treated harshly. There was nothing the wind could do to him could surpass his stepfather’s cruelty.

 

Despite a respite from the treatment of others, Bucky’s mind seemed intent on making sure he suffered. Memories would come to him, but rarely were they good. Rarely were there screams. Bucky had never given his targets time to scream. He had been efficient, but there was no comfort in that. What did it matter that their deaths were quick? Those men and women were still dead by his hands.

 

Thoughts of his victims inevitably lead him to thoughts of Steve. He could have killed the king without breaking a sweat. There would have been another body to his kill count, and he could have done it in the time that it took a nobleman to return his cup to its saucer.

 

The king was lucky that Bucky had not been sent out by his stepfather. Though he could not remember details of how his stepfather had turned him from a beaten servant to a killing machine, he could remember enough to know that there was a certain rhythm and order to those nights. Zola had not followed that pattern.

 

Errors in patterns made them break. That was one of the first lessons that Alexander Pierce had drilled into Bucky’s skull. Zola’s desire for King Steven’s death had been the flaw Bucky’s mind had needed.

 

But rejoicing over that knowledge made Bucky feel hollow inside. Even the pleasant memories of his childhood made his heart ache. Thoughts of Steve made him think of the betrayal that he had visited upon him. Worse, they highlighted the differences that were between them that had not been there when they were boys.

 

Bucky was no longer the son of a rich, well respected family. He was less than a servant in his clearer memories and worse than a murderer in the ones he tried to banish. Though thinking of Steve’s blue eyes and warm smile made his heart pound in pleasant ways, there could not be a happy ending for them.

 

True love, or whatever it was that the magicians, doctors and apothecaries of the court called it, was something that was so rare it might as well have been a myth. Hadn’t Steve already used up enough luck for a lifetime? A magical cure that made him strong, tall and beautiful was the sort of thing that used up all of a person’s good will with the universe.

 

Bucky bit his lip as he started at the dwindling flames of his fire. Maybe that was why he had lived the life he had. Somebody had to pay for all the luck that Steve had gotten, didn’t they? What better person to punish than the man who was destined to fall in love with him?

 

Shaking his head in irritation at the course of his own thoughts, Bucky snuffed out the fire. The hissing steam and smoke did not help him sleep.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Bucky’s parents had never been the kind to drink to excess. He can remember his father telling him to pity the men that stumbled out of taverns, drunk off their heels while the sun was still shining down upon them. “James,” he had said, “those men are the ones who can’t face their lives without a bottle between them and the air.”

 

Bucky desperately wished that his father’s advice rang true. The half-empty bottle sitting before him clearly stated that he had drunk over half of it. But whatever magic that kept him from freezing to death clearly kept him from the respite of alcohol as well. Nothing he drank could make his heart ache less than it already did. His insides felt like they wanted to crawl their way out of his body and march their way back to Steve.

 

“Stupid,” Bucky snarled into his glass. The barkeep ignored him. The woman sitting next to him did not.

 

“I wouldn’t say that,” she drawled, voice low and full of amusement. “It took me a while to find you. I don’t usually have that problem.

 

The muscles in Bucky’s back tightened as he whipped his head around to stare at her. She arched a single, red eyebrow at him as her mouth parted into a smile.

 

“You won’t win,” she informed him, “and I don’t want to have to pay for the damages that proving that to you would cause.”

 

Unthinkingly, Bucky’s monstrous, metal hand crushed the bottle it was wrapped around. It curled around the undamaged neck to hold the jagged end out at the woman. Alcohol dripped onto the floor between them. “I will kill you,” Bucky threatened, “and I will kill everyone my stepfather sends after me.”

 

“I guess it’s a good thing I don’t work for him, isn’t it?” the woman said as if Bucky had just commented on the weather. Only her posture gave away the fact that her ease was fictitious.

 

“Who do you work for then?” Bucky snarled.

 

“I work for somebody who is tall, blonde, blue eyed and stupidly in love with a crazy man threatening me with a bottle,” she said, eyes flicking down to the makeshift weapon that was still pointed at her.

 

Bucky sighed and put the bottle back down on the table. “He shouldn’t be looking for me.”

 

“Yeah, well, he’s in love with you, so you should cut him some slack,” she retorted.

 

“He shouldn’t be that either,” Bucky groused. “I’m not prince consort material.”

 

“He disagrees. Vehemently disagrees,” she corrected. “I’ve been carrying this around with me because he wanted to make sure I had the right metal handed man.”

 

Bucky’s glove flopped onto the table. The edge of it soaked up the spilled alcohol.

 

“King Steven cannot be with a man that has murdered so many,” Bucky whispered as he stared at the glove. He refused to let his heart be warmed by the ridiculousness of Steve’s request.

 

“I have an impressive number of kills under my belt. I haven’t been hauled off to prison,” the woman pointed out.

 

“Lady Natasha, I did not kill anyone in service to the crown.”

 

“So you do know who I am,” Natasha mused.

 

“He can’t love me,” Bucky said firmly, ignoring Natasha’s statement.

 

“Well you don’t get to tell him that,” Natasha informed him. “Besides, I didn’t think ‘true love’ or being ‘soulmates’ was some life changing, immutable experience. Are you telling me you don’t love him back?”

 

“No,” Bucky ground out around his clenched teeth. “I’m telling you I can’t be with him. What sort of king is in love with a man he has to send to prison?”

 

“I don’t think that’s going to be a problem unless you decide to have the town crier announce that you’re the person who committed those murders.”

 

“My stepfather will blackmail me or worse.” Bucky told her. “If not him, my stepbrother will do whatever it takes to discredit and expose me.”

 

“Alexander Pierce is dead,” Natasha informed him. “He died of what appeared to be the vicious attack of dark magic. Presumably the magic of a guardian fairy given that we found one dead not five feet from your stepfather’s body. As for your stepbrothers, Jasper is dead. Brock is wanted for his murder.”

 

Bucky closed his eyes in pain. “Brock didn’t kill Jasper,” he whispered.

 

“I don’t care,” Natasha said, anger creeping into her carefully controlled voice. “I’ve seen the conditions they kept you in. I saw what was kept in that cellar.”

 

“Steve…”

 

“Fuck Steve,” Natasha snapped. “Nobody in their right minds would advocate what happened to you. Aside from that, even if you went to trial, Steve would pardon you as soon as he could. Being the king has privileges like that.”

 

“I can’t be what he wants me to be,” Bucky said after a moment of silence.

 

“He doesn’t want you to be anything but with him,” Natasha said. “Even if you can’t give him that, you could at least wallow in your misery in a comfortable room for a while.”

 

“That wouldn’t be fair to him. It wouldn’t be fair to me either,” he added on in a soft voice, unable to fully comprehend wanting something for himself.

 

Natasha shrugged. “Then come back with me and stay instead.”

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Bucky shifted uncomfortably as he waited in the expensive chair that he had been told to sit in. For something that cost so much money, it was terribly uncomfortable. The clock on the mantle chimed at the hour, reminding him of the last time that he had been in Steve’s study.

 

For all the days that he had been gone, it was each minute that ticked by that seemed like an eternity. He had wandered for a while. Natasha had acted as his constant shadow until the moment he decided to return. Despite what his head said, his entire being wanted to be near Steve.

 

In that moment, Bucky swore that the entire journey back to the palace had taken less time than he had been waiting for Steve to make his appearance. Thoughts whirled in his mind. Perhaps Steve’s heart was not as true as he had sworn it to be. Perhaps it was, but Steve’s loyalty to his kingdom meant that he would have to forfeit his love. Perhaps Steve had fallen and broken his neck on a flight of stairs – ending their story in terrible tragedy.

 

The door swung open at a minute past the hour, a tired looking Steve rushing into the room, wet hair plastered to his skull. Bucky rose to his feet, unable to sit in the chair as Steve approached. He wanted to take his judgment standing up, not cowering as he had done for so many years.

 

“Bucky,” Steve said, wrapping his arms around Bucky in a tight embrace.

 

Bucky’s heart pounded in his chest like it could escape his ribs to join Steve’s.

 

“Don’t leave me again,” Steve ordered.

 

“I won’t,” Bucky promised as he gently returned the hug. “I don’t remember you that well,” he admitted.

 

“That’s okay,” Steve said. “I remember you enough for both of us right now. We’ll work on the rest.”

 

~~~Epilogue~~~~~

 

There were lavender blossoms strewn all over Bucky’s room when he awoke. They were a simple blossom, not fancy enough for most royals. But Bucky had always loved the fragrance of them. He used to pick them up for his mother on his way home from the markets.

 

They reminded him of happier times and scrawny princes who needed friendship.

 

“Are you awake?” Steve asked through the closed door.

 

“No!” Bucky shouted even though the door was already opening. “You’re not supposed to be looking at me before the ceremony,” Bucky chided as Steve slipped into the room.

 

“That’s for brides,” Steve scoffed. “You are definitely not a bride,” he said as he crawled onto Bucky’s mattress.

 

“Steve,” Bucky hissed in censure.

 

“Yes, my beloved James?” Steve purred as he straddled Bucky’s body, settling his weight down.

 

“You can’t wait until tonight?” Bucky asked pointedly.

 

Steve grinned and leaned in to nip at Bucky’s neck. “That’ll be married sex.”

 

Bucky groaned, cursing that Steve always managed to hit the one spot on his neck that made his blood go hot. “I’m sure married sex will be just as good.”

 

“I’m counting on it, but why not celebrate the day twice?” Steve suggested.

 

Bucky sighed and pulled his soon-to-be husband in for a kiss, pushing his hand under the fabric of the trousers that Steve was wearing to grope at his ass. Steve was right. Today was a day to celebrate.


End file.
